


Inscriptions, or, A Little Night Music

by CopperBeech



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Also I can't cut it out with the literary references, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, And yeah I have to work music into it sue me, Apparently I have a thing for Aziraphale talking dirty and leaving hickeys, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Biting, Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Egregious Misuse Of John Buchan Novels, Established Relationship, Gratuitous Smut, I can't do smut without getting philosophical, M/M, Obedience, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Rimming, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-23
Updated: 2020-01-23
Packaged: 2021-02-22 15:06:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22351453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CopperBeech/pseuds/CopperBeech
Summary: Aziraphale believes in the power of the word, written or spoken. Crowley appreciates the demonstration.The first time Aziraphale spoke to him like that he didn’t know what he expected – for God to part the clouds outside the window and sayI gave you the Word, what are you evendoingwith it?!For Crowley to, what? Slam him against a wall, even if he’d asked for it?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 56
Kudos: 287
Collections: Top Aziraphale Recs





	Inscriptions, or, A Little Night Music

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Laura Shapiro (laurashapiro)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/laurashapiro/gifts).



> Offered up, though I be not worthy, to the Princess of Tender Smut, for words of encouragement when I professed stalling out on something that doesn't come quite so fluently to me.
> 
> This is originally the fault of whichever Tumblr user posted an on-set shot of David Tennant in 2008-Crowley fig walking away from the camera. Porn without plot is not my forte, but in this case, goddammit, I'm too susceptible.

“I’m in the mood for a bit of Mozart, go on and have a soak, then. And it’s the book on the nightstand. But you’re not to take it into the bath with you, it’s the original printing.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, angel. Just wanted to see what gave you some of those ideas.”

The dinner conversation had involved Aziraphale’s propensity for intrigue. It had all worked out for them, considering the events that _didn’t_ lead up to Armageddon, but Crowley hadn’t expected “broad reading” to be the answer to _how in Heaven did you get to be so subversive?_ – despite the fact that it’s Aziraphale’s answer to almost everything.

“The power of language is underestimated,” Aziraphale had said primly. “Don’t forget it’s how She made everything to begin with.”

London’s cold in January, and Crowley’s flat is certainly more sumptuous, if sumptuous means _expensive,_ but Aziraphale knows why the demon prefers coming back here; everything’s small, cozy, flannel’s warmer than sandwashed silk, Crowley feels pampered by the way his angel always keeps the flat all but tropical for him.

But not warm enough that he’s usually likely to find Crowley like this when he comes upstairs, still humming the last movement of _Kleine Nachtmusik:_ naked, prone, propped up on his elbows, knees bent and ankles crossed, perusing _Huntingtower_. Crowley’s backside is just that tiny bit rounder and fuller than you’d expect from his gangly build; it’s a sight the angel loves and Crowley knows it. You can take the demon out of the Infernal regions, but as for separating the Infernal regions from the demon…

“Mmmm.” Aziraphale settles on the edge of the bed, fills both hands, kneading. “I hope I’m not interrupting.” Dips his head to graze a kiss over the dimples at the small of the long back, flick another over the dusky skin at the top of the cleft between those pretty mounds.

“Boring book anyway,” says Crowley. “Only _you_ would think this was the pinnacle of thriller writing.”

“So this is _only_ better than the first three chapters _._ ”

“Two. I was dozing off.”

“Oh. Well, if you need your beauty sleep…”

“Losing my looks, am I? – _ah!”_ , because the angel’s nipped into that curve of flesh with surprisingly sharp, small teeth, pressing his lips in, to – what, kiss it better – but no, seal and suck the skin up into that delicate bite. There’s going to be a mark there. He doesn’t release until he hears a soft hiss, a sound that always affects him in a way that’s not angelic at all, at all.

“What you get for tempting when you’re off the clock.”

“I didn’t say stop.” Crowley settles his head on his arms with a sigh and a small wriggle.

“Good.” Aziraphale dips his head again; there’s a beautiful swell and curve of real estate there, a clean page ready for his inscriptions. He sucks another mark into the peak of the hipbone, that little bit that shows in back when Crowley walks around the flat shirtless, sometimes in the bottom half of the angel’s pyjamas -- a powder-blue, striped incongruity that leaves Aziraphale torn between just watching, because it’s Crowley wearing _his pyjamas,_ and rolling them down off him because it’s _Crowley._

No such decisions now. He’s bare and warm from the bath, even a little pink still; that ginger’s skin is so pale, so delicate, and the blood stipples under it in little hieroglyphs that follow the shape of the angel’s teeth. His lips are swelling a little from this, but the squirming under him is too satisfying. “ _Satan_ , angel, I’m going to have those for a week.”

“What a shame. You won’t be able to show your arse in public.”

“When have I been afraid to do that?”

“You said it, not I, dear.” He’s reached the incurve just above Crowley’s thigh, sips and tongues his way to the extra-soft place where all those beautiful clefts and creases converge. Crowley’s not really trying to jerk away; he’s just not managing a lot of control right now.

“I believe,” says Aziraphale, “that I am overdressed,” and undoes the tartan tie with one hand while he thumbs that pretty little confluence with the other, spreads his hand for another squeeze. Shrugs out of his jacket. Goes to work on the other side, setting off little wordless noises on the inbreaths as soft nips threaten to break skin but don’t, little patches of fresh bruise feel the soothing stroke of his tongue. Inks another line of text along the sharp spine as he works off the waistcoat, trailing the soft nap over his fresh calligraphy before he sets it aside.

“I can tell you’re nearly indecent – “ begins Crowley, “why don’t you – _ssssssssssss!”_ Because those large soft hands have spread him apart and the lingering kiss at the base of his spine becomes a slow journey downward, a little tongue-tip, a little brushing of lips. Aziraphale makes him wait, already rocking into the mattress a little, before he feels the ghost of breath and the velvet touch on that tender little rosette at his centre.

“So pretty,” says the angel. “May I?”

“If you _don’t – “_

“You’ll what, dear?”

“Just fucking _discorporate.”_

“Well, we can’t have that.” And the angel commences a love letter there in invisible ink, a little alphabet of endearments that grazes, now circles, now lingers.

“You do tempt me,” he says presently.

The answer is a little incoherent.

“I might – if I’m not troubling you too much – “

“You’d damned well _better_.”

The angel’s got what seems like a miraculous ability to work out of trousers without taking away more than one hand – rubbing the pad of his thumb, meanwhile, into the center of that moist little flower. Bearing down hard enough with the heel of his hand that answering movement’s all but impossible. “Let me put something soothing on that,” he says, “I’ve been so cruel to it.” Crowley’s back up on his elbows now, eyes closed, back arched, the hair that he’s been growing out trailing between his shoulderblades, and he hisses again at a cool touch of slippery fingertips. “You’ve been thinking about this, haven’t you?” purrs Aziraphale. “Did you touch yourself? Confession is good for the soul.” He knows how to hit the places that pull a shiver out of the demon, spark a movement back into the hand that the angel, pressing down on the shovel-bone at the small of his back, still won’t allow.

“No, but I’m damn well _about to – “_

“No, you’re not.” Aziraphale has weight and strength on his side. He’s going to take his time with this.

“It does give me faith in the Ineffable Plan,” he goes on shortly as if he’s still conversing over dinner and not wringing little pleading whines out of a demon with his elbows dug into a tartan sheet, “that She put so much pleasure into so many parts of the human corporation. And let us enjoy them too, even if we don’t need them. I have to think that indicates Her fundamental. Ah. Benevolence. Ah, yes, you can take a little more, can’t you?”

“Ssssssssssss, you have to – “

“Do I? Well, I would very much _like_ to. If I take your meaning. Perhaps after some trouble with the presentation.” His hand brushes against Crowley as he tucks a pillow under his hips. “Oh, very _nice_ , dear. Did I do that?”

"You know you, angel, _fuck_ –– “

“Lovely idea. Perhaps like this –– “

_“Sssss!!”_

“Just a little, to test the waters.”

“Fucking let me _move,_ you bastard – “

“Oh, no, not yet.” Now both hands are weighing on Crowley’s hipbones and he’s trying with all his strength to push back, without significant success. It’s a slow tease of almost-in, not-quite-out.

“You’re going to make me come. All over your damned _tartan.”_

“Not so fast. I know you’ll be good for me.” Aziraphale wasn’t a commander in Heaven for nothing, never sound the charge prematurely, timing is everything; it’s a dance of securing territory, tactical regrouping before advancing further. “I don’t want you to come until you’re. What is it you like to say. Gagging for it.” And indeed there’s a low noise in Crowley’s throat as his angel presses on a little further, retreats almost entirely a half dozen times, then decides a concentrated sally through the gates is warranted, a slow, steady press into the open field. The noises underneath him are rewarding; so’s the continued attempt to rise up and meet him. He doesn’t let it happen until Crowley’s swearing and hissing with his hands curled into tight fists, then reaches around his narrow waist to pull him up, lets him brace with his arms, holds those sharp hipbones.

“There you go now, darling. All yours. Go on, fuck yourself on me. You’re such a little slut for my cock, aren’t you? Look at you, taking all of it.” The first time Aziraphale spoke to him like that he didn’t know what he expected – for God to part the clouds outside the window and say _I gave you the Word, what are you even_ doing _with it?!_ For Crowley to, what? Slam him against a wall, even if he’d asked for it? – _Angel, please, tell me it’s good for you, tell me it’s wrong and filthy and you want it that way._ He’s come to understand now: when he talks like this, what it means to Crowley is _I made a soldier of Heaven do this, he’s mine and not yours any more, I made those words come out of his mouth._

Belonging to Crowley is _perfectly_ fine. And it doesn’t hurt that all those words he’d never imagined himself saying make him shudder deliciously as they leave his lips, that at odd moments he thinks of them and smiles to himself: _Gabriel, we must revisit the topic of pornography some day. I do believe our discussion could be the final guarantee you never bother us again._

Crowley’s gone still; he can hear a long, slow, shivering breath, feel a deep flutter where he’s pressed in tight, knows what’s happening: the demon’s holding back, waiting for him, offering his obedience. “You’re being good for me, darling,” he praises. “Not until I say, _so_ good.” Reaches under that spare belly, feels a little jump go through the demon as he makes a ring of finger and thumb, circles the tip of a beautiful Effort with the lightest touch.

“Can you stay still? Without my making you? – I’ll take that for a yes,” because Crowley doesn’t move as he’s stroked but makes an extraordinary noise that possibly involves a few new vowels. “Do you know how much I love being inside you? You’re gorgeous, you’re divine.” Long and slow, feeling the tremor and strain of Crowley holding still against desire.

Heaven is supposed to admit nothing of desire, only obedience, and Hell rejects obedience for every form of earthly desire; Aziraphale doesn’t see why they can’t have both. Perhaps that’s why it’s _their side_ now, now while he’s rocking into Crowley as if there won’t ever be deep enough, leaning in to whisper sweet crudities through the strands of blazing hair, _Is this how you like it? I can tell how hard you’re trying, you’re almost ready, aren’t you?_

He stops suddenly. It’s an effort for him too, he’s trembling, the hand snugged around Crowley quivers a bit and he tries to still it. He feels the shallow hitches of breath as the demon tries to hold back. _Let me hear you, give me a little night music. Do you want me to give you what I’ve got? Come on then, darling, let it happen, make a mess of everything, it’s perfect, you’re perfect –_

Crowley explodes the moment he starts to move. It’s heat in the angel’s hand and tightness around him, pushing him over his own edge, and oh it is _not_ the sound of violins. When Crowley comes this hard, he hisses, writhes, is more serpent than he ever is without actually transforming; any language that comes to him is in the forgotten tongues of Hell. It’s something he apologized for at first – the fierce sibilance, the yellow blaze of his eyes, the snake so close to the the surface, _I never wanted you to see me that way._ Now he knows it’s something the angel cherishes, Crowley with his last guard down, showing everything that he is. Aziraphale wraps around him, speaking close to his ear: _I’ve got you,_ _not afraid, not one tiny bit,_ because what’s happening inside his embrace is furious, fiery. At times like this, the demon’s face doesn’t even look entirely human. It was a while before Crowley didn't try to hide that.

But now he doesn’t protest when Aziraphale finally slides down to the bed, rolling Crowley to his side to spoon him – he moves limply, almost dead weight – and runs a finger down that flat belly, knowing every nerve there is still quivering. He’s whispering, soothing, his own release still rippling through him; it took him a little while to realize, at the beginning, that the salt trickles he kisses away aren’t grief or pain but simply the hugeness of it all to Crowley, of being loved, of being able to feel. _In Hell the best thing to feel is nothing,_ he'd once said. _‘S’why I was all over it when they said, Get up there. And then._

_And then I saw you._

He’s drifting – sleep has never come naturally to him, but Crowley seems to pull him along – before he realizes that he’s got his head on the book and that the pillow that was originally there is beyond salvage. At least, he doesn’t feel ambitious enough right now to do anything about it.

“Share a bit, dear,” he says, snuggling in close, burying his face in the red elflocks. “Short a pillow, and I don’t think I’ve got any miracles left in me.”

“Left ’em in _me,_ ‘spect.”

“Is that what we’re calling it now?”

“How about _bloody wrecked me?_ ”

“What do you expect me to do if you’re going to show that off?” says Aziraphale, and smacks him decisively on his now extensively autographed bottom with the first edition of _Huntingtower._

“Abusing the power of the word. Shocked at you.” But his tone is fond, and he takes the volume from Aziraphale and places it with due reverence on the nightstand; sighs as the angel settles behind him.

“You’ve been so good for me, dear.”

“‘M’not good,” murmurs Crowley, and this is their dance now; Aziraphale can hear the smile as he says it. Some part of him finally believes his angel.

“Yes you are.”

“Very bad. Tempted you to do all that. Quite appalling – _sss_!” Because Aziraphale's leaned in to suck a last, sharp, biting kiss into the back of his neck. The shivers go down both arms.

“And that is to remind you that you are a beautiful serpent, with lovely markings.”

He traces the calligraphy of desire one more time with a drowsy fingertip before closing his eyes again. The inscriptions are in a language only they share, and the marks will fade, but the meaning won't: _Aziraphale loves Crowley._

_finis_

**Author's Note:**

>  _Huntingtower_ is one of several novels in which the prolific John Buchan (Lord Tweedsmuir, Governor-General of Canada 1935-40) plunged an everyday person, in this case a shopkeeper, into espionage and international conflict; his efforts are helped along by a gang of local kids who throw confusion into the enemy ranks. Buchan may have had a bit of a warping effect on Aziraphale, who never quite ceased wanting to pull off a bravura feat of intrigue. Crowley thought the Blitz had cured him of the notion, but by the time Armageddon rolled around, was quite glad it hadn’t.
> 
> If you liked, share, reblog, comment! Authors are always thirsty ;)
> 
> Come say hello on Tumblr @CopperPlateBeech


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